


Numb

by Warped_Alignment



Series: Requested Fanfics [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mentor Minerva McGonagall, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Tea Parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:34:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29860242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warped_Alignment/pseuds/Warped_Alignment
Summary: Sequel to Tea and a Biscuit. Can standalone too, up to you.Harry feels numb.
Relationships: Minerva McGonagall & Harry Potter
Series: Requested Fanfics [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2203311
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Numb

Harry felt numb. 

He hasn't felt this for a long time. The battles, the fear, the faces of those who were lost. They swirled around his head like an unruly whirlwind, and he had no idea what to do. He doesn't know how to stop them.

He didn't cry. He isn't even sure if he'd know how to start. Or if he'd stop crying if he did. 

It's just so..empty. 

Before the war, there was this hope, a hope that it'd get better. That he'd go with Sirius, get away. But then Sirius died. It was hard. It was still hard. But he moved on, and had a hope that maybe he'd get to know more about his parents from Remus. 

Then Remus died. 

And Tonks. 

Lavender. 

Dumbledore.

Hedwig. 

Dobby. 

Mad-Eye. 

Fred. 

If he mourned, it'd be real. If he shed a single tear, they'd be gone. But they were already gone. And he was alone. 

No. He wasn't alone. He was surrounded by people. But none of them understood. It was _his_ fault. They died for _him._

So this is how he ended up walking across the rubble filled hallways to Dumbledore's office. Of course, it wasn't really Dumbledore's office any more. He whispered the password, and waited until he could get inside. Once he was there, he stepped forward. 

It was still the same office, there was no changing that. Not that you'd want to, of course. The same paintings adorned the walls, with all of the headteachers in them (well, some of them had wandered off, but you couldn't keep them there if they didn't want to be), and the same furniture decorated the space. 

But it felt different. 

It wasn't a bad different, either. Which was confusing, because it should be. The last two people to inhabit the room where his dead headteacher and his murderer. But because of the current inhabitant, it was not as horrid as he thought it would be. She had changed it just enough. 

It looked the same, sure, but it was warm. Warmer than he'd ever remembered it being. But not uncomfortably so. It felt like the common room in the middle of winter, calming and gentle. It smelt like smoke, and freshly boiled tea, cat fur, and parchment paper. It smelt homely, and he breathed it in gratefully. 

In the warmth, his numb limbs started to come back to life, but it didn't change what he felt inside. 

"Mr Potter. What can I do for you?" she asked with a small smile. He smiled back at her, 

"I just..I wanted to.." he trailed off. 

What _did_ he want to do?

He wanted to tell her everything. But it didn't seem fair. She knew these people too. She had every right to be just as upset as he was. And she didn't deserve to hear about his feelings about it. She probably didn't even _want_ to hear his feelings about it. But she would have to, if he stayed. She'd feel obligated to. And he wouldn't do that to her. He turned to leave, 

"Leaving already?" she called behind him,"Won't you stay for a cup of tea?"

It was enough to make him turn around. He looked at his teacher. His mentor, really. He knew she was telling him it was ok to talk to her about it. He knew she'd always be there to listen. So he came forward, sitting down into the chair on one side of the desk, watching McGonagall as she made a teapot up. She made it like she always used to, and for a moment, Harry feels like a kid again, like he's only had a nightmare, a bad dream, and that they'll talk until he feels better. 

But this was no bad dream. 

She came to the other side of her desk, placing the tray onto it, and delicately lighting her cigarette on the end of its holder. She picked up her cup, leaning back in her chair slightly, and waiting patiently for Harry to begin. 

He took his cup too, dunking a biscuit into the hot liquid, watching the almost hypnotic way it soaked itself in the stuff. He glanced over at her, to see if she was still watching, but then noticed, too late, that the baked treat had snapped, its limp, sugary body disintegrating in his tea, until it sank to the bottom. 

He watched it disappear.

Gone. 

He didn't get another cup. He didn't talk like a rational person. He didn't even dip another biscuit. 

Instead, Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, Victor of The Legendary Battle of Hogwarts, Owner of The Elder Wand, Destroyer of Horcruxes, and Protector of Muggles stared down at his cup, horrified, and cried. Over a biscuit.

Of course, it _wasn't_ the biscuit which made him cry. Except it _was._

The biscuit was gone. He dunked it, and it was _gone, and it was his fault._

Tears streamed down his face as he realised it was _him, he was the horcrux. He was the horror who killed them all._

They were _gone._ They had disintegrated like the biscuit in his teacup. _And it was all his_ _fault._

He felt the cup being lifted from his hands, but didn't want it to be taken away from him, _why did they always leave?_

But then the cup was gone, and someone's arms were around him. They smelled like tea and cigarettes and cat fur, and he felt _safe, safe for the first time in months._

And he was sobbing, _because it was horrid,_ and someone else was crying too, but he also felt so safe, and content to just cry here for hours, if he wanted. 

He didn't know how long they stayed like that, but he did know he started to feel less numb. His whole body gradually filled with warmth, and once they'd pulled away, he didn't feel it any more. He felt like a person again, albeit a mournful person. 

McGonagall wiped her eyes on her sleeve, and set about relighting her cigarette. She fumbled with it, hands shaking as it caught, and sitting back into her chair again. 

"I don't know what to do now, Professor." he told her, and she shrugged,

"No-one does." He nodded at that, 

"I know they're out there, somewhere." He said, "I wish I could see them again."

She gave him a sad smile, and shook her head, "I wish so too, but I think it's best if we don't." she took a puff of her cigarette, and Harry agreed with her. 

"We'll see them again, Mr Potter," she informed him with a smile, "They always were too stubborn not to."

He chuckled, leaning into his chair, "They were that."

"They will never be forgotten, Mr Potter," she told him, finding his eyes, fixing onto them with a stern gaze usually reserved for telling him off, " _Never."_

"Never." he echoed, and silently promised himself never to forget. He looked over at his mentor, looking as authoritative as she had at the beginning of term, everything changed around him, and seeing only familiarity in her face. He took a breath, 

"Professor, I just wanted to say thank you." he told her. She smiled, her eyes glinting kindly in the light. She shook her head, 

"Whatever for?" she asked, 

"Taking care of me. You never had to, you know?"

"Nonsense, Potter," she said with a soft smile, "I _always_ had to."

And in that moment, he was completely sure that it was true. And it filled him with happiness to know. He was still sad, and he'd grieve, for months and months. 

But he knew he wasn't alone. There were people who would take care of him. 

After all, they were too stubborn not to. 


End file.
